


The In-Between Place

by china_shop



Category: Canadian Actor RPF, Fandom RPF, due South
Genre: Crack, Fic, Llamas, M/M, Mary Sue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-18
Updated: 2005-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Excuse me, ma'ams," says an oddly familiar deep voice, and we both whirl around to see a red-uniformed figure in a hat grabbing the coil of rope as he hurtles in our direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The In-Between Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mergatrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergatrude/gifts).



> With apologies for the llama.

china_shop: Yay, you're here! :)

mergatrude: If only *peers longingly eastward*

china_shop: Meet you half way?

   


* * *

   
There aren't any islands for us to meet on. We'll have to meet on a convenient cruise liner. (One that serves soy hot chocolates and Really Good Cheesecake.)

The random other passengers are distracted playing shufflepuck and talking to, uh, Julie? And Captain Stubing? All except for a tall, lean guy with blond sticking-up hair, who's chipping golf ball after golf ball into the Tasman Sea. He's wearing a bracelet, and has a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

We lean on the railing of the deck above and ogle him covertly.

Suddenly, from behind a life raft springs an exuberant, slightly straggly looking brown [llama](http://mergatrude.livejournal.com/43424.html?thread=119456#t119456), who spits in the golfer's face.

"Hey!" shouts the golfer, in an indignant Canadian accent, as he staggers back toward the railing.

"Albuquerque!" you breathe in dismay.

We watch in horror as the golfer flails, trips over a coiled rope (as are often found on boats), and goes headfirst overboard with a splash.

"Oh god! Oh god! What shall we do?!" I say, wringing my hands. "I don't think he can swim! And my only superpower is not eating sugar, and that only works on Thursdays."

"I can remember nearly all the due South fanfic ever written," you say, helplessly. "Though, actually, not much of the Fraser/Vecchio stuff." (is this true? am i maligning you?)

"We have to do SOMETHING!" we both cry, and gallop down the stairs to the deck below, where Albuquerque is nibbling on an abandoned golf club. We rush to the side of the ship, and look with dread into the cold cold blue blue waters of the Tasman Sea. The golfer is falling behind the ship, his arms flailing wildly.

"Oh shit," I say. "I'll tell the captain."

But just as I'm about to dash away, I'm distracted by a blur of white fur, bolting towards me.

"Excuse me, ma'ams," says an oddly familiar deep voice, and we both whirl around to see a red-uniformed figure in a hat grabbing the coil of rope as he hurtles in our direction.

The red-suited man skids to a halt at the railing, breathing heavily. "Oh dear," he says. He drops the rope, sheds his hat, and begins to loosen the buckles on his uniform, his fingers flying through the intricacies.

In the water, Dief (for, of course, the blur of white-gray fur was he) and the golfer are splashing wildly towards each other, but then both disappear behind a particularly big wave.

"I'm not a very strong swimmer," I mumble, lamely. "Or I would've, uh, jumped in, too."

Fraser doesn't spare me a glance.

"Here," you say, and hand him a lifesaver.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am." He shucks off his tunic, and ties the end of the rope into a complex knot around the lifesaver.

I think he's going to leap overboard, but he doesn't. Instead he whirls the lifesaver over his head like a lasso -- barely missing Albuquerque, who's come over to see what the Stetson tastes like -- and then flings it unerringly towards the golfer.

Dief half-barks half-gurgles and goes under. The golfer, though, manages to get his arms around the lifesaver, which then flips over so he's safely circled by it. He hauls himself up until he's draped over it, and then ducks under the water, his knees hooked over the lifesaver, anchoring him to the surface.

We watch nervously.

Time slows to a crawl.

Finally, _finally_ , he surfaces again, a huge sodden deaf half-wolf in his arms.

"Oh thank god!" I mutter.

Albuquerque hums agreement.

You cheer.

Fraser starts to reel in the rope, and at last we make ourselves useful by helping. The rope is wet and rough in our hands, and the golfer and the dog are really remarkably heavy.

"My arms hurt," I whine.

"Soy hot chocolate," you bribe me, encouragingly. "Cheesecake!"

"Cheesecake!" I agree, and put my back into it.

After an eternity, when our backs and hands are aching and sore, a wet furry face appears over the side, followed by CKR, who's looking green about the gills.

Dief shakes seawater over all over us, and seems fine -- he goes over to investigate Albuquerque -- but Callum collapses on the deck in an exhausted traumatized heap.

You and I have a little scuffle about who should give him mouth-to-mouth, but then we both admit we don't really know how, and by the time we've turned around, Fraser's already on it, so we just stand back and admire the view.

The mouth-to-mouth continues for a disturbingly long time. For a while, I expect it to turn into a clinch, and even get slightly embarrassed about perving, but it doesn't and then I start to worry about Callum. What if he's actually hurt? You and I exchange perturbed glances, but just then he rolls over abruptly and coughs up a fair proportion of the Tasman Sea onto the wooden deck.

Fraser sits back on his heels, flushed and panting. "Ray," he says. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Callum coughs, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and squints up. "Paul?"

"Ray!" says Fraser. "Have you hit your head?"

"Paul, stop fucking around. Why are you in costume? Why are you _here_? Where's Hugh? And what the hell is that thing?"

"It's a llama, Ray."

"Albuquerque," you murmur.

"Shhh." I'm hoping they won't notice we're here, because I _really_ want to hear this conversation.

Callum looks around wildly, presumably checking for a film crew. Luckily he ignores us utterly. "I'm _not_ Ray," he says to Fraser. "We're _not_ shooting. Due South finished _years_ ago. God, I'm surprised you even still fit that damned uniform. And how'd you get Draco onto a cruise ship? They wouldn't let me bring my dog."

"His name's Diefenbaker, Ray," says Fraser, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "And I'm afraid you must have suffered some kind of head trauma. I'll take you to the medic, but first we should get you out of those wet clothes."

"You're the one with the brain damage, Paul," says Callum. "Stop being a dick."

"Who's Paul?" asks Fraser.

"You are, you idiot. You're Paul and I'm Callum." Callum's getting agitated now. He bares his teeth, coughs, and then scrambles to his feet. He's sopping wet and wild-eyed, and everyone takes an involuntary step back. He _looks_ just like Ray.

"Actually," says Fraser, "I think you'll find--"

But you sidle up to him, nudge him discreetly, and whisper, "Perhaps you should humor him. He did just nearly drown."

Fraser frowns for a minute, then brushes his thumb quickly against the side of his nose. "Understood."

He moves forward and start to unbutton Callum's sodden jacket, but Callum knocks his hands aside. "We've talked about this, okay? I'm not doing that anymore."

"You're all wet, Ra-Callum," says Fraser, firmly. "You need to get warm."

And, indeed, Callum is shivering, hugging himself, with his thin hands clamped around his arms.

I shrug off my jacket and hand it to you, and you give it to Fraser, and Fraser gives it to Callum. "Put this on," says Fraser. "Or I'll rub your chest with whale mucus emollient."

Callum stares at him, bug-eyed. "Paul!" he says, like a warning. "Okay, that's it. I'm going to my cabin to change."

"An excellent plan," says Fraser, a bit too heartily. He claps Callum on the shoulder and starts to follow him.

Callum shrugs him off. "Alone!" he says.

Fraser frowns again. "I really think--given the circumstances, you should have medical attention. You shouldn't be alone, R-Callum."

Callum snorts, then shrugs. "Okay, fine. Send a doctor to my cabin. Fine. But I don't need you perving while I change."

"I could!" I offer, hopefully. "You know, just if you need supervision or something. Not that I have any actual first aid skills or anything..."

Everyone ignores me.

Fraser looks sad, then resolute. "As you wish," he says.

"Yeah," says Callum. "I wish." And he totters down to the lower deck, while we trail along behind, pretending we aren't admiring his loose-limbed (if shaky) walk, and various parts of his anatomy.

"Ah, excuse me." Fraser taps you on the arm. "You've forgotten your llama."

   


* * *

   
That evening we're in the lounge bar eating the BEST CHEESECAKE IN THE WORLD, and trying to convince Albuquerque that she's supposed to stay outside, and "Look, llama, look at the pretty view. You _like_ it outside, remember? You're an animal of the _wild_!" when Callum comes up to us.

"Uh, is this yours?" he says, holding out my jacket.

"Wuh-- Yuh-- Uh-huh," I mumble, starstruck. (He looks particularly fetching in a ratty old sweater and faded jeans, with his hair rumpled and gelled, and big clompy boots.)

"Yes," you say, brightly, covering for me. "Are you feeling better? Can we buy you a drink?"

He hands me my jacket, and politely pretends to ignore the fact that I'm drooling into the remains of my cheesecake, and offers you a shy smile. "Some other time," he says. "I'm here, uh, with someone." He gestures to a table in the corner, and we both squint in that direction.

Hugh's sitting there, watching us through narrowed eyes.

We wave.

"We could buy you both a drink," you suggest.

"Especially if you tell us all the details of your private life," I somehow manage not to add. I just nod, convulsively.

Callum looks a bit worried that maybe I'm insane or something, and makes polite apologies. He takes a step back, about to go back to his boyfriend.

Just then, Fraser turns up. "Ah, Ray," he says. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to. Dr Kevorkian is willing to examine you, to make sure you haven't sustained any longterm injuries."

Albuquerque leans over and takes a big alpaca bite out of Fraser's Stetson. "Oh dear."

"Paul!" says Callum, exasperated. "What the fuck are you playing at?"

"Hey, Gross," says Hugh, materializing at Callum's elbow. "Back the fuck off."

   


* * *

   
china_shop: There are too many people in the conversation! How am I supposed to write a 5-way-plus-alpaca conversation?! And I still don't know where it's going. Give me a hint:

Poker game? Orgy? Bar fight? Crime fighting? More CHEESECAKE?! Alpaca medical emergency? Big band production number, with Paul and Hugh singing "I can do ~~CKR~~ anything better than you can" and back-up dancers and Callum on air-guitar?

Help?!

mergatrude: Poker game is good, except I can't play. Maybe they could teach Fraser - AGAIN!! (Sorry, pet peeve of mine!) Fraser may have to perform a citizen's arrest on Hugh for attempted assault. Callum thinks about jumping overboard again, and locks himself in our cabin with Albuquerque and a large cheesecake. Dr Kevorkian turns out to be Ray Vecchio (the real Ray Vecchio) undercover. And it seems that Ray Kowalski and Stella Vecchio (formerly Kowalski) have been participating in a danceathon on C Deck. They're about to break the world record for non-stop tango-ing when Dief knocks RayK over in an attempt to lick his ear. Paul Gross is not on board, unless he's disguised as the cocktail waiter.

china_shop: You're a genius!


End file.
